Scarred for Life
I have a scar on my chin.
I got it when I fell down when I was 12 years old. It runs along the bottom of my chin where you can’t see it. It’s almost flat but I can feel it when I rub my fingers along it, a very slight hump right at my jaw. I don’t look to see if it’s there, but I can feel it, and that’s enough.
I got the scar while walking the dog—a bassett hound, one of those lazy looking dogs with long, draggy ears, hotdog body, short legs, sad eyes. The dog and I were coming home early evening from the park down the street, heading uphill to the house, hurrying to get to a Friday night high school football game.
The dog was on my right. We were running side-by-side straight up the sidewalk, having just crossed the street, the house maybe ten yards away—when out of nowhere a cat dashed across our path. The cat flew left, the dog followed likewise and ran in front of me. But I kept running straight ahead, tripping over the dog and leash and landing smack on my chin.
Pulling myself off the concrete in the dim evening light, I yanked the dog back and stumbled home. My dad met me in the driveway. He had just pulled his car into the garage and heard me walk up. Shook up, shocked, numb, my chin throbbing, I had no idea of how badly I was hurt until he asked what happened to me, took my head into his hands, turned my chin up, and stuck his thumb into a gaping, bloody gash.
He didn’t say much, only that he had to stitch me up. He acted quickly, without hesitation, grabbed something for the blood, and got me into his car. I don’t remember anything about the ride to the hospital, but we went straight to ER, where the nurses let my dad the orthopedic surgeon have an area to work, no questions asked. There, he cleaned the wound, filled a syringe with xylocaine, injected it into the cut with a long, sharp needle, and meticulously sewed up my chin. Then he took me to the football game.
I recall at the time being really mad at my sister (the dog was her dog, but she, being three years older and in high school, had been allowed to go ahead to the football game with her friends…while I walked the dog). I remember being mad at my mom for making we walk the dog, mad at the dog, mad at the cat, mad at the awkward bandage that encased my chin.
But I don’t think on those things anymore. The gash healed, a week later my dad took the sutures out, I stopped being angry at my sister, the dog got old and died. All that’s left is the scar, and now, years later, I realize I’m glad I have it.
The nature of scars
We all have scars – burn scars, surgical scars, disfigurements from sports injuries, motor vehicle accidents, battle scars. We also have scars from emotional wounds, injuries of the deepest kind that often go untended because no one can see them. How well the wounds heal, how well the scars form, depends on…us. It depends on whether we want to be healed, whether we allow others to help us, whether we put ourselves into the hands of a healer—or if we refuse to acknowledge we’re hurt or do things that aggravate the injury.
My dad was a healer. He had a gift for medicine and surgery. His surgical residents used to recount how precisely, neatly, and quickly he could pin a hip: good placement, firm hand, accurate strokes, clean close. Done.
But he was more than a good technician with skilled hands. He was a healer at heart who loved people and to whom God gave a spiritual gift of healing. I cannot count the number of times patients would take leave his office, tears of gratitude in their eyes, and stop and tell my sister and I at the front desk what a good man our father was. I’ve no idea what he said to them, not being privy to doctor-patient conversations, but seeing the relief on his patients’ faces told me he didn’t just set fractures and repair meniscus tears, but went beyond to touch something deeper than bone and sinew. As a trained physician, he was taught to observe and listen in order to heal; and as a healer with God’s eyes and ears he saw and heard more than physical pain.
Not just what we do but who we are
My dad helped show me that the gift of healing is not just what we do, but who we are. It’s easy to put a Band-Aid on a cut, or throw an icepack on a muscle, or tape a finger to a splint. The human body is made to heal, regenerate blood, grow new tissue. But what is not easy is taking the time to look beyond the obvious presented symptoms, to touch, to care, to listen to those who hurt for what really pains them, to see what lies beneath their eyes, and then to walk alongside and help them invite God The Healer to do the rest.
Healing is God’s territory. It’s what He wants to do, it’s what He does best. He does it because He loves us. He wants to pick us off the ground and mend the gaping holes, rout out the infection, reset our broken bones and restore our crushed spirit. He wants to help us move freely with strength, show us how to use muscles to their best capacity, run farther, jump higher, sprint faster, and breath His air.
The prophet Isaiah so magnificently writes:
[28] Have you not known?
Have you not heard?
The everlasting God, the LORD,
The Creator of the ends of the earth,
Neither faints nor is weary.
His understanding is unsearchable.
[29] He gives power to the weak,
And to those who have no might He increases strength.
[30] Even the youths shall faint and be weary,
And the young men shall utterly fall,
[31] But those who wait on the LORD
Shall renew their strength;
They shall mount up with wings like eagles,
They shall run and not be weary,
They shall walk and not faint. [Isaiah 40:28-31, New King James version]
This is a picture of healing, a picture of wholeness that becomes our experience when we turn our heads to recognize the Creator God. And we who have experienced His healing and strength are often called, always called to be the connection points that show how much God desires to give this extraordinary healing to every person that He has created and loves.
That’s what I love about my scar.
My scar reminds me not that I was wounded but that I was healed. It is a tattoo of my father’s love, that although he passed away in 2006, shall forever remain a tangible remnant, an indelible mark of his healing touch and imprint on my life.
Scarred for life
It has also become a metaphor for me for what all scars should be – reminders of a healing and not a recollection of a hurt. I believe that God can and wants to do that for all of our hurts, the one’s bleeding and visible, and the ones buried and painfully immobilizing: He wants to see us walk in wholeness. He desires to change us with His healing. He wants to scar us for life with His love.
Pamela A. Chun
©July 5, 2009
Please reprint only with permission.
I got it when I fell down when I was 12 years old. It runs along the bottom of my chin where you can’t see it. It’s almost flat but I can feel it when I rub my fingers along it, a very slight hump right at my jaw. I don’t look to see if it’s there, but I can feel it, and that’s enough.
I got the scar while walking the dog—a bassett hound, one of those lazy looking dogs with long, draggy ears, hotdog body, short legs, sad eyes. The dog and I were coming home early evening from the park down the street, heading uphill to the house, hurrying to get to a Friday night high school football game.
The dog was on my right. We were running side-by-side straight up the sidewalk, having just crossed the street, the house maybe ten yards away—when out of nowhere a cat dashed across our path. The cat flew left, the dog followed likewise and ran in front of me. But I kept running straight ahead, tripping over the dog and leash and landing smack on my chin.
Pulling myself off the concrete in the dim evening light, I yanked the dog back and stumbled home. My dad met me in the driveway. He had just pulled his car into the garage and heard me walk up. Shook up, shocked, numb, my chin throbbing, I had no idea of how badly I was hurt until he asked what happened to me, took my head into his hands, turned my chin up, and stuck his thumb into a gaping, bloody gash.
He didn’t say much, only that he had to stitch me up. He acted quickly, without hesitation, grabbed something for the blood, and got me into his car. I don’t remember anything about the ride to the hospital, but we went straight to ER, where the nurses let my dad the orthopedic surgeon have an area to work, no questions asked. There, he cleaned the wound, filled a syringe with xylocaine, injected it into the cut with a long, sharp needle, and meticulously sewed up my chin. Then he took me to the football game.
I recall at the time being really mad at my sister (the dog was her dog, but she, being three years older and in high school, had been allowed to go ahead to the football game with her friends…while I walked the dog). I remember being mad at my mom for making we walk the dog, mad at the dog, mad at the cat, mad at the awkward bandage that encased my chin.
But I don’t think on those things anymore. The gash healed, a week later my dad took the sutures out, I stopped being angry at my sister, the dog got old and died. All that’s left is the scar, and now, years later, I realize I’m glad I have it.
The nature of scars
We all have scars – burn scars, surgical scars, disfigurements from sports injuries, motor vehicle accidents, battle scars. We also have scars from emotional wounds, injuries of the deepest kind that often go untended because no one can see them. How well the wounds heal, how well the scars form, depends on…us. It depends on whether we want to be healed, whether we allow others to help us, whether we put ourselves into the hands of a healer—or if we refuse to acknowledge we’re hurt or do things that aggravate the injury.
My dad was a healer. He had a gift for medicine and surgery. His surgical residents used to recount how precisely, neatly, and quickly he could pin a hip: good placement, firm hand, accurate strokes, clean close. Done.
But he was more than a good technician with skilled hands. He was a healer at heart who loved people and to whom God gave a spiritual gift of healing. I cannot count the number of times patients would take leave his office, tears of gratitude in their eyes, and stop and tell my sister and I at the front desk what a good man our father was. I’ve no idea what he said to them, not being privy to doctor-patient conversations, but seeing the relief on his patients’ faces told me he didn’t just set fractures and repair meniscus tears, but went beyond to touch something deeper than bone and sinew. As a trained physician, he was taught to observe and listen in order to heal; and as a healer with God’s eyes and ears he saw and heard more than physical pain.
Not just what we do but who we are
My dad helped show me that the gift of healing is not just what we do, but who we are. It’s easy to put a Band-Aid on a cut, or throw an icepack on a muscle, or tape a finger to a splint. The human body is made to heal, regenerate blood, grow new tissue. But what is not easy is taking the time to look beyond the obvious presented symptoms, to touch, to care, to listen to those who hurt for what really pains them, to see what lies beneath their eyes, and then to walk alongside and help them invite God The Healer to do the rest.
Healing is God’s territory. It’s what He wants to do, it’s what He does best. He does it because He loves us. He wants to pick us off the ground and mend the gaping holes, rout out the infection, reset our broken bones and restore our crushed spirit. He wants to help us move freely with strength, show us how to use muscles to their best capacity, run farther, jump higher, sprint faster, and breath His air.
The prophet Isaiah so magnificently writes:
[28] Have you not known?
Have you not heard?
The everlasting God, the LORD,
The Creator of the ends of the earth,
Neither faints nor is weary.
His understanding is unsearchable.
[29] He gives power to the weak,
And to those who have no might He increases strength.
[30] Even the youths shall faint and be weary,
And the young men shall utterly fall,
[31] But those who wait on the LORD
Shall renew their strength;
They shall mount up with wings like eagles,
They shall run and not be weary,
They shall walk and not faint. [Isaiah 40:28-31, New King James version]
This is a picture of healing, a picture of wholeness that becomes our experience when we turn our heads to recognize the Creator God. And we who have experienced His healing and strength are often called, always called to be the connection points that show how much God desires to give this extraordinary healing to every person that He has created and loves.
That’s what I love about my scar.
My scar reminds me not that I was wounded but that I was healed. It is a tattoo of my father’s love, that although he passed away in 2006, shall forever remain a tangible remnant, an indelible mark of his healing touch and imprint on my life.
Scarred for life
It has also become a metaphor for me for what all scars should be – reminders of a healing and not a recollection of a hurt. I believe that God can and wants to do that for all of our hurts, the one’s bleeding and visible, and the ones buried and painfully immobilizing: He wants to see us walk in wholeness. He desires to change us with His healing. He wants to scar us for life with His love.
Pamela A. Chun
©July 5, 2009
Please reprint only with permission.
posted by Pam Chun at 11:18 PM
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